Shards, Shreds, Scraps
by SadeLyrate
Summary: Collection of drableish oneshots containing naught but pain in multiple ways because I'm twisted. Updated sporadically. The goal is to have ultimately 100 'chapters'...
1. Drums

Summary: Collection of drable-ish oneshots containing naught but hurts in multiple ways because I'm twisted.

I'm not likely to ever expand these scenes and snippets, but that doesn't mean you can't. All I ask is that you drop me a note, a link to the story, nod for inspiration if you decide to elaborate on one. Thank you. :)  
I haven't consciously copied anyone's idea/s, but some similarities are bound to occur after a while, especially since Supernatural's already garnered attention of many.

Warning (susceptible to change as the whim dictates): The tense may vary from piece to piece, as will the length and POV.   
Rated T because of at least heavy indications, though not necessarily graphic depictions of minor and major offenses (both mental and physical) directed at the Winchesters.  
Not likely to contain character death, wincest, mary sues/marty stus.  
Consider yourselves warned.

Feel free to inform me of typos and grammar. Occasionally even phrases. ;)  
It would be very, _very_ highly appreciated if you'd let me know whether or not I should keep this up, or let it die in the cot...

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Drums**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Later, he wakes up to see the sunlight splattering on yellow walls. His left eye hardly opens, his head feels too heavy to even risk rising.  
He can't remember what happened.

Suffering is but a dull ache, pregnant with promises of pain, to be born without mercy were he to move. Breathing is okay, at least as long as he keeps it slow and shallow. His ribs introduce themselves with gradual throbs, memories of ugly, shattering sensations ghosting through his mind.

He swallows, and even that smarts.

He turns his head to see, and the headache happily shifts from heartbeat to heavy metal.

But at least he's not alone.


	2. Burn

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Burn**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

She smiles, his fingers failing to obey him and press down the trigger.  
Eyes cold, unblinking, her voice distant and daunting.

"You're drowning."

And he is. There's nothing but water around him, dark and deep and endless. Pressing against him from all sides, his lungs burning for air that just isn't there.

Panic paces, rears, pounces on his heart with an iron grip, tearing an opening for despair.

_No._

_It's a trick_, his mind whispers. _You're in the cabin, about to salt and burn the bitch's bones._

_It's real_, his body answers. _You're deep in a nightly lake, about to drown alone._


	3. Bound

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Bound**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Dull throb at the back of his head, shrill complaints of strained muscles welcome him to the waking world. The numbness of his fingers, the aching of his knees clue him to the passed time, the things that took place in his mind's absence.

First reaction: pull free.

_Flee._

No chance of that. The movement encourages his body to protest more, blood picking up a new pace as adrenalin besieges his system, his eyes useless as opening them only reveals darkness, breath warm within the bag over his head.

_Fuck._

But the bag's fabric. Fabric has weave, weave leaves holes, holes let air in. And out. _In. Out._

He can get free.

Nothing feels broken, the tell-tale sting of wounds is missing.   
His hands are bound, blood climbing up stretched arms. There is hard ground under his legs, glowing cold even through the jeans. The air feels cool and still against the bare skin of his upper body.

_Problem._

His feet are bound. Ankles, by the feel of it. Bound to the ground.

Someone is breathing in his vicinity. Harsh, erratic, wrong. He thinks he can see something like little points of light through the tiny spaces in the fabric. His neck berates him as he turns his head, trying to see more, failing. There is nothing besides the troubled breath. Silence as deep as old graves' fills the space. No hum of electricity or machines, no rumble of traffic, no distant voices or noises.

"Hey?" He calls out tentatively.

The breath hitches, makes way for a deeper, shuddering one.

"Anyone there?" He tries anew.

He thinks he can almost hear something.


	4. Beast

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Beast**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He inched slowly backwards, the old boards wellworn under his hands, dust and blood trying to clog his airways, aid his already burdened breath in turning to a feat. His fingers tried to find holds, knots, bumps on the texture of the floor, reach a weapon he could use.

The furry behemoth's shadow loomed in front of him, hardly five feet away, its head trashing around distractedly.

His back hit a wall, his ribs sparkling with new pain, his breath catching.  
_It's just pain_, he told himself, keeping his eyes on the giant, not even thinking about his leg. _Pain is good. It lets you know you're still alive._  
It doesn't give you a weapon, though, or transport you to safety.  
But it lets you know you're still alive and can make it.

_Dean on the other hand...?_

The creature sniffed the air, turning then its one-eyed gaze at him, something closer to insanity flickering across its mangled, somewhat canine face.


	5. Train of Thought

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Train of Thought**  
_by Sade Lyrate _

_(Just a very short, weird little thing that popped up...)_

It hits him with all the gentleness of a speeding train, and he's feeling, reeling, careening off his course faster than he ever thought possible.

_Nothing you can do._

-:-

The presence passes, reduced to something akin a bad vibe, and he draws in a deep breath, banishing the last of the shadows in his mind. He looks around, all thoughts save for one fleeing his consciousness as he realizes how black Dean's staring, terror-bound eyes look in the dimness, breath the only sign of life.

They should have known better than this after the last asylum...


	6. Fears

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Fears**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The tunnels are long and dark, and he lets his eyes adjust. There is a flashlight in his hand, another in the bag, matches in his pocket. The less warning he gives, the better, though. He's braved dark spaces before, after all. Senses sharp, his ears catching the constant presence of water, the rock cool under his fingers, the smell of old sewers in a twisted way comforting before his nose grows numb to it.

Steps soft, paces purposeful, he covers the distance in good time.

Gradually, the wetness slips away, the stonework dries out, the darkness is destroyed by faint light ahead. He hasn't seen anyone, veering away from the few human voices he has heard, hiding as well as he can until he is certain the way is clear.

A moment more, and the tunnels turn into chambers, lit with candles like the architect had been hired to create a set for a cheap horror flick.  
In the first, he finds clothes, haphazardly sorted into coats and jackets, shirts, shoes. Biting back the fears murmuring through his heart, he glances through them, picks out the all-too-familiar, worn leather jacket and dark blue shirt, collar stained. He fingers it for a moment before stuffing them into the bag, trying to swallow back everything but determination and cold reason.

The second chamber, larger by far than the first, strengthens the terrors picking up the pace of his pulse. Knowing is not the same as seeing, but he cannot shrug off completely the poison of doubt, whispering horrors of being too late. Not at the scene of candles painting out the grooves and stains on the floor, the frames and the bloody bodies hung from them, black bags sucking in the light, symbols carved in flesh.

As his own breath catches, desire to simply torch the whole damn place presents itself, fanned by the singular, laboured breath from among the seven figures.


	7. Umbrage

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Umbrage**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Sam leaned heavily against him, eyes shell-shocked, left arm pressed fervently against his chest, lips tight.  
Still sentient, still stumbling, still silent.

They staggered in the undergrowth, avoided roots, dodged branches, made their way as fast as they could to the car.

Dean just wanted the hell out of the woods. _Screw the job._ With his little brother aware of his surroundings, but at the same time completely out of it, he chose to flee rather than to fight. Figure it all out in the relative peace and safety of their motel room, find out what the fuck had happened...

The Impala gleamed in the moonlight, a curious beacon of liquid shadow.

Once more, Dean asked Sam all the questions he'd asked before, and got the same answer as each time before. The only difference now being that instead of a treestump or Dean, the tall man leaned against the car, pale against the smooth blackness, closing his eyes under his brother's barrage of care, only to tear them open hardly a second afterwards, shock sharp anew.  
Cautiously, arm never having left his chest, ignoring the elder man, he slid in without a word, without a gasp or a moan or a cry, eyes averted, hard and dry.

Dean let him, unable to forget the scream that had led him to the clearing, the terror and pain in the hazel eyes hardly acknowledging him so pure he never thought either one of them could feel anything alike. Not with what they knew, what they'd seen.  
With a final glance at the trees behind them, silent curses behind his eyes, he entered the car, keys a cool confirmation of stability.


	8. Salt Rain

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Salt Rain**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Before he knows it, the rug's pulled from beneath his feet and the world tilts and thunders inside his head and there are fingers around his throat, cold as ice and pressing _hard_.

He struggles to draw in a breath while his own hands, snake-fast and still feeling too slow, whip up the gun, salt raining down on him as the ghost screams and relents. He rises, catching his breath, eyes alert, ears perked.

_The sooner the little SOB's bones burn, the better._

Briefly he wonders how Sam's doing.


	9. Affliction

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Affliction**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The drive was silent, worried glances asking louder than any words ever could, the silence deflecting more effectively than any empty phrases or pained gasps could.

Sam kept his eyes on the dark vista outside, Dean held his gaze on the road, on his brother as much as he dared, trying to catch whatever clues his little brother might have been willing to divulge.

The only thing he knew was that no matter what he said, Sam remained silent.  
Alive, aware, adamant.

The slimmer man embraced his left arm to his chest, refusing requests to see it, harbouring his hurts like a hen her eggs.

A mile or so from the motel they were staying at, several from the damned forest, the younger man swallowed, sighed, slumped in his seat, shut his eyes against the night outside. Green eyes flashed at him, hammering the back of his head with wordless inquiries.

"Jess", he whispered in answer, letting his hands fall onto his lap, left wrist the angry red of burnt skin even in the flimsy beams of the streetlights.

Next time he slept, Sam woke up to his own screams for the first time in a long while.


	10. Respite

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Respite**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

"Dean?" Cool fingers trace his face easily, familiar voice feeling for his sentience. "Come on, you need to wake up now."

There is urgency to the words, the touch gentle.  
He flinches, though, trying to flee it, trying to think, all his attempts at anything but a pathetic, strangled cry demolished as the movement awakens the nerves, sets them on new fire, agony as bright in memory as present.

"Easy, Dean. It's okay...I've got you", murmurs the voice, warm arm snaking around him, under his arms. A shift against his broken body, a snap, and his arms, muscles, finally granted respite, add their own distinct burn to the aches and abrasions already present.

Sam's arms wrap around him, grate against the flayed skin of his back, heartbeat like a frightened rabbit under his cheek, beneath flannel and cotton. There's peace, promising pardon from all the pain, at the edges of his consciousness.  
There's also the voice of his little brother, quietly urging him to stay awake, stay with him.


	11. Blaze

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Blaze**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He stumbles out, half-blind from the smoke and the shock, memories mad as he drags them further away, his legs stumbling, his hold slipping. Grass under him. _Just like back then._ His brother's nearly in his arms, helpless, gasping for air as much as he is. As if enchanted, he turns to look at the burning house. But this time, no one rushes out to grab him, hug him, try and tell him through tears that it'll be alright. _Not now. Not ever. Not again._

Shouts around them, his eyes clearing, derailed thoughts finding and following a train that consisted of only one imperative. _Watch out for Sammy._

He scrambles, pushing fears and terrors and aches away for later, his fingers trailing across the skin on the younger man's soot-spattered face. There's a pulse, strong and easy, but Sam's out, his breath fast and steady. The fire roars behind them, sounding almost sentient. Dean drops his head, relieved, freaked worse than he'd ever admit.

Suddenly, there are sirens, approaching, the reds and blues frantically competing for attention with the flames. His head snaps back up, the strobe lights supporting his headache with full force as instincts try to kick in and get them both out of there before the official personnel can catch them. But his body seems rooted to the spot, unwilling to cooperate, caught in the headlights.

_Police_, his mind numbly supplies, quietly listing symptoms off a chart. _No way out._


	12. Rise

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Rise**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Dean's body falls limply against his, sharp inhale, hiss the only signs of pain as Sam can't avoid touching his brother's beaten back. He wants to just remain there, hunched, hugging his brother, be relieved by the fact that he is still alive. _Not yet, not here._ So, as gently as he can, the taller man rises to his feet, draws one of Dean's arms across his shoulders, strangled groan his answer as he wraps his arm around the other man's waist, the duffel bag helping with the balance.

The skin is sticky and slightly cool under his fingers, but at least he can't feel any broken ribs. Even in the flicker of fire, though, Dean's skin looks too pale for comfort. Still, he manages to match Sam's hurried steps, face gleaming, staring eyes black in the battles of shadow and flame, breath harsh.

There'll be time for words and worries later. Now they need to get out of the maze, save themselves and leave the corpses, the tormentors to the fire and the authorities.


	13. After

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
After**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Breath as ragged as his face, hazel eyes far from sentient, Sam slips beyond the reach of his words, leaving him more alone than he's ever been. Pulse prances, too fast, rivaling his own as he takes in the rest of the scene, the bodies piled up at the foot of the wall farthest from them.

He shouldn't have left Sam alone. Not now, of all the times.

But he had, and the best he can figure out now is that some guys jumped his brother, lured him into a fight and...

All that has to wait, though.

Like always, Sam's wellbeing, Sam's safety comes first.   
Especially as he's already failed his little brother once.


	14. Routine

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Thank you for all who have left reviews. Your kind words, Ginger Ninja, wild wolf free17, Ash8, everyone else, are truly appreciated. When the alerts and everything works properly again, I'll answer each and everyone of you. :)_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Routine**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Dean gasps, flinches, as the antiseptic first touches the skin of his back. After letting out a hiss, he hardly shivers, breaths pronouncedly deep and steady, catching on occasion, knuckles nearly white as they grasp the bed covers.  
Sam works as fast and efficiently as he can.

The lashes aren't deep, or wide, but they are many.

He keeps talking, clinically telling Dean the extent of the damage, what he's doing, what he will do. That's the routine. He talks to keep his brother with him, to keep himself distant and sharp, to keep track of the injuries.

When he finishes, Dean sighs and slumps, his whole body trembling. Sam tries to get him to drink, then helps him lie down. Green eyes hide behind heavy lids and his body relaxes, consciousness finally fleeing like a bird its cage. Breath settles, fingers twitch, sleep takes over.

Sitting on his own bed, Sam looks at his brother, runs his hands over his face, through his hair, eyes rising to glance at the window. He knows there are sirens, blue and red lights furiously swirling in their emergency dance. He can't hear them, see them, but he knows they're there.

At times like these, he feels the darkness ever so slightly closer, the scream reverberating in his bones, a trashing dragon trapped and bound.  
He knows, once he lets it out, there's no turning back.  
But once he lets it out, there won't be anything to turn back to.


	15. Flicker

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Thank you for the kind words, borderlinepsycho, wild wolf free17, Ginger Ninja.  
Wild wolf free17: "Trashing dragon" as in_ trash about_, move wildly and uncontrollably_.

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Flicker**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The flame flickers, steadies itself again.  
Bends with his breath, beams with his blood.  
He stares, hypnotized, too weak now to even really think.

Fire is life: warmth, temperance, safety.  
_All things Dean._

Memories have ebbed with the light, and he no longer has the strength to care.

Fire is death: heat, excess, danger.  
_Mom, Jess, Dad._

When the candle dies, he knows he won't be far behind it.


	16. Wrong

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Mishka89, thank you. Thank You to everyone else who still reads, too. :)_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Wrong**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

His head rings, and it takes too many blinks to clear his eyes, lock on one set of figures dancing before him.  
There's copper in his mouth, vertigo weaving its way into his consciousness as he struggles back up, wood against his back, blade already drawn.

Sam, sleeve bloody, silver-edged blade of his own an extension of his lean body, eyes upon the growling mass of fur and claws between them. Swipes and strikes, circling and curling and capering, missing and avoiding. Still, there's blood on Sam's sleeve, matting the fur of the critter, glistening in the light.

They should've shot the son-of-a-bitch...

_Works a whole hell of a lot better if you've got the guns and the bullets, and don't get 'em knocked off your hand..._

Nausea wells up as he lunges forward, blade sharp and bright and cold in front of him. The knife connects with more than air, slipping through skin and flesh, colliding with bone as his own body meets the muscled monster's, brings them both down with a shared cry. A moment, a struggle, his headache spiking momentarily as another swing sends him reeling again.

He thinks he can hear Sam's angry shout and wonders briefly what he did wrong before the shadows swell and spill over him with a gunshot.


	17. Guilt

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Thank you, Nienna Eleniel, Ginger Ninja and wild wolf free17.   
All your words truly warm the heart. And since everything seems to be in order again, I'll go and enjoy the 'reply'-feature. :)  
And now for some thing a bit different..._

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Guilt**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

"Yeah, well, whatever it is, we-" Sam's voice broke off suddenly.  
Raising his eyes, Dean watched the hazel eyes of his little brother harden as he stared at something in the paper.

"Sam?"

Without a word, the tall man dropped the paper, rushed away, cellphone already in hand. Glancing after him, taking care to keep him in his sights, Dean caught the news, tried to see what had upset his brother. He'd been reading obituaries.

At first, nothing jumped up at him.  
When one name did caught Dean's attention, he was on his feet in a heartbeat, cursing under his breath as he approached Sam, talking on the phone outside the diner's doors, fingers in his hair.

"-friend...how-how'd it happen?" Sam was saying, voice treacherously calm.

As casually as he could, Dean leaned against the doorframe, watching, listening. Sam swallowed, shoulders taut, his back facing his brother.

"Thank you. I...I'm sorry. Goodbye."

The hands dropped, the younger man drew in a deep breath as he tucked the phone back into a pocket. Found Dean looking at him solemnly as he turned.  
Tight lips turned into a bitter smile, hurt hiding in the bright eyes.

"She burnt up", he said, voice tense. "In her old nursery. With the flash point in the ceiling."

Dean watched him storm off before he had a chance to say a word.   
Jessica he'd hardly known, but this time...he couldn't help the twinge of guilt in his heart. He couldn't help wondering if, had he not pushed Sam to Sarah so badly, she might still be alive.


	18. Trial

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Thank you again, everyone who has read and reviewed. Wild wolf free17, Ginger Ninja, Thru Terry Eyes, Ash48...everyone. _

_Preseries, probably AU_

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Trial**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He rolled, raised his arms instinctively to protect his head as he heard the swift stroke slamming through air, the cane connecting sharply with the long bones of his forearms (_ulna_), jarring but not breaking.

The door was on the other side of the room, the shotgun the first strike (_should've seen it_) had forced him to drop a bit to his right.

Another roll, sudden crack on his back, and he cried out, breaths turning to pain. He reached, pretended the hurt couldn't hinder him, brought up the sawed off gun, pressed the trigger a moment before his eyes focused on the shade of the old man.

The echoes died, gave way to silence, the sounds of his hurried heart and breaths. He stared for a moment, listening, scrapes sharpening his senses.

_Get up, Sam._

Carefully, quickly, he got to his feet, rushed to grab the bag, spun around and unloaded another charge by instinct alone as he watched the wraith shrivel from sight anew.  
Checking the gun, he ventured further into the old house.

_Just find the damn bones and burn 'em, or Dad'll kick your ass to next week..._


	19. Struggle

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Spoilers for **second season**: 2x02, 2x03._

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Struggle**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Sharp cry stops him barely in time, the weight of the blade solid comfort in his hand, hasty heartbeat drumming out demands.

Green eyes, bright against too pale skin, beg him.

He can feel the cold fury scorching his soul, dark and spiralling further out of control.

Dark eyes look up at him from between cracked lids, barely sentient, and the blade falls ever so slightly, breaths harsh in the cold night.

"Put the knife _down_, Sam..."

_Oh, I will_, he thinks, the dark man's pulse quick under him, echoing the imperatives of his own.

"Please..."

He wants to feel the warmth of the man's blood on his hands, wash away the memory of Dean's life, slipping out of him, through his fingers.  
He wants to hear the heart slowing down, stopping.  
He wants to see the life and light die in those dark, mad eyes...   
...but all he sees is a reflection of himself.  
All he hears are rough gasps, his own, Walker's, Dean's, the fear and the plea in his brother's voice.  
All he feels is the cold hand of conscience reaching, touching, reminding him that killing humans, no matter how wrong or twisted, is _not_ their job through the maddening gallop of blood.

With one easy move, the knife slices the air, leaves his fingers as he drops down, lips next to the ear of the elder hunter, his voice naught but a low growl.

"Hurt anyone I care about again...hurt anyone of Lenore's black ribboners..." He lets the threat leave its trail before he gets up, off the man struggling toward full consciousness, leans against a nearby tree as the adrenaline begins to ebb, his body admits the night's toll.

Ellen approaches them cautiously, gun easy in her hand, eyes darting from one man to the other, her daughter left behind with his brother.

"Sam?" She calls, wary, seeking his gaze.

"I'm okay", he whispers, and feels the world slip away.

* * *

Note: I admit to being Terry Pratchett's fan. With all due respect.  
Have a cookie if you caught the reference. Have another if you caught it before reading this note. :) 


	20. Dread

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Dread**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He wakes up to the simple feeling of something just being utterly, irrevocably wrong. In the darkness of the motel room, the scent of worn furniture and fabric, feeling warm under the sheets, he listens to the silence.  
Too silent.

The moment the realization hits home, he's already reaching for the light on the night table with one hand, the hunting knife in his other.  
The pale glare gleams in Sam's eyes, lifeless, pale face stark against the sheets stained crimson, oddly angled over the edge of the bed.

Denial tears him from the dream, but the scare remains, fools the senses to believe the scene. Eventually he realizes that there is a difference, for sleep-steady breaths break the silence, his fingers meet warm skin, eyes find unmarred throat.

So far, his nightmares have mostly belonged to the night and the Sandman.  
He dreads the date when one of them is delivered to the day and Death.


	21. Stitches

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Thank you, everyone who reads, and especially Ginger Ninja, wild wolf free17, Ash89, Thru Terry Eyes, Mishka89 and Starliteyes17...as well as all the other who have left comments. _

_-begin rant- I'm desperately trying to learn out of victimizing Sam. But Dean's reaction to getting hurt still seems to be a shrug and a gruff "I'm okay."  
Whereas Sammy...he's a veritable Werther!  
Something about him makes it so easy for me to imagine him hurt, conjure forth all sorts of nasty stuff, all the myriad ways of trying to break him, succeed, only to piece him together again afterwards...  
Besides, he suffers so delightfully. ;) -end rant-_

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Stitches**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

"You stupid ass... what the hell were you thinking, charging into Chaney Jr. like that?"

"I'm not hearing gratitude for saving your ass..."

"I had it under control."

"Yeah, sure you did - watch it! You were gonna wait it to death?"

"Stay still if you don't want to go to the ER."

"Those things are freakin' fast. You wouldn't have made it."

"So instead of letting me take my chances with it, you decided to see how good wrestlers they are?"

"With those claws, they don't play fair-"

"What were you thinking?"

"Distraction?"

"Blood works better _inside_ the body, you know."

"Knew you'd have my back..."

"You think I _enjoy_ patching you up?"

"Hey, there's lots of people who'd appreciate getting to see this work of art!"

"In that case, the next time you decide to let a ghoulie perform some impromptu surgery on you, I'll just drop you off at the nearest bar and leave you there..."

"And run off with my baby?"

"_-sigh-_ Dean...you gotta stop doing this."

"Well, I'm not gonna let you just drive off with her, not aft-"

"Dean. If I'd fumbled..."

"A good thing you didn't, then? I said, watch it!"

"You're lucky to be alive! So stop complaining about a few stitches, and stay still and let me do my job!"

"..._sigh_..."


	22. Nerves

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

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**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Nerves**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Movement in the corner of his eye, and he had already spun around, brandishing his gun at apparently severely pissed off collection of ancient cans, blood-thirsty broom and their friend, obviously homicidal length of rope. All quite happily hunched where they had likely laid for the last eight decades, judging by the dust.

His brows knit together momentarily.

The job was probably just getting to him. The seventy minute naps he called sleep, occasionally stretching closer to seven hours, thankfully, weren't likely to help either. And for all he knew, mice or rats inhabited this run-down shack.

With a shake of his head, chuckle at his nerves, he turned back to venture further, toward the door in the far wall.

Behind him, the rope uncoiled itself, slithering after him, silent as a shadow.


	23. Yesterday

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Yesterday**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Groaning, he fell back onto the mattress, eyes dull as they faced the nondescript ceiling.

_No one to obey.  
No one to wait for.  
No one to look after._

With hardly a sound, he ran a hand over his face, feeling the familiar stranglehold of loneliness embracing like a lover every muscle of his body, caressing his heart, soft sob slipping easily out into the emptiness of the single-bed room.

The dusk danced happily outside when he finally dragged himself up and away, his fingers so well-versed with the contours of the keys he hardly realized he'd taken them out of his pocket, the weight of the duffel bag holding his belongings offering comfort like few things could. Another of those laid before him now, black finish reflecting the motel's lights.

_Three weeks of silence._

Not the way it was supposed to be.

So when he noticed the voice mail on his cellphone, listened to it, he really couldn't say he was surprised.  
Maybe there would have been room for shock if cold dread, blind need to see the wayward members of his still-living family hadn't suddenly claimed the whole of his being, forced him to race against unknown fate in an attempt to get to Palo Alto as soon as possible.

_After that...?  
Jericho. _


	24. Minutes

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Minutes**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Something buzzes for his attention, begging for it in the back of his head with ethereal fingers. It's not desire, because she's the queen in his head now, dedicated to bed the brunette in front of him. It's not the ultimatum of fight or flight, because there's nothing to set off those alarms. The bar's clientele is mellow and friendly, the alcohol enough to get people to loosen up, but not enough to lose it.

Still, he glances around, eyes lingering for a beat longer upon the form of his brother, hunched in a corner, pouring over their father's notes, before the green eyes return to the girl of tonight. _Sam's fine_, his brains tell him. But now the buzz has become a bee, and he swiftly, charmingly excuses himself.

There's no answer as he approaches the other man.

"Sam?"

He recognizes the burn then. His instincts, his guts know something to be off even before the vacant eyes turn his way.

"What's wrong?"

The words are hardly out of his mouth as he's already catching the younger man, long legs failing.

10 minutes later, and Sam sits in the car, listless and limp, though awake.

20 minutes later, and the college boy is giggling at the pretty flowers dancing on the bare walls of their motel room.

30 minutes later, and the hazel eyes are wide with terror, screaming at them to get off of him.

40 minutes later, and Dean welcomes the retching sounds from the bathroom, hoping that will help.

50 minutes later, and Sam's shivering under the covers, staring at him in horror.

60 minutes later, and the younger man's finally out cold.

70 minutes later, and Dean's swearing to himself, once again, never to let his baby brother anywhere near drugs.

280 minutes later, and there's fury as he manages to hunt down the guilty party.

* * *

_Author's note: The drug in question, I've decided, is called narrativium, because I'm no pharmacist, and, duh...With all due respect to Mr. Pratchett, of course. ;) _

_Incidentally...Thank You, everyone who reads, and those who leave reviews...here, have an e-hug.:)_


	25. Landslide

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Landslide**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Dean looked awful.  
Scratch that. Dean _always_ looked awful. But last time he'd been as pale, blood as sharp against bleached skin...

Sam swallowed, trying to avoid the memories, the flashback of the feelings, work on getting the debris off his brother, tossing away roots and branches, lumps of moist, heavy ground.

_Thirty feet. More or less. Enough._

There was blood running down Dean's face. _Just like-_

_Mine._

He swung around, peered into the darkness around them as he heard the strange not-quite-voice. Nothing.

_Damn it!_

They should have been more careful. An area with history of sinkholes, and they had gone ghostbusting there. After rain.

_Might've as well played inverted Russian roulette._

As if that wasn't enough, the spirit wanted Dean. Making a note to himself not to let Dean forget that anytime soon, Sam steeled his jaw and wrenched a half-rotten tree trunk away. The man was a stupid jerk but...he was _Sam's_ stupid jerk. He wouldn't lose Dean.

_Not to some over-eager bitch._


	26. Twist

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Twist**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Already running by the time the cry left him, his heart beating out a desperate denial and knowing he was already too late, had always known he would be too late when this day caught up with them, Dean still urged his body to move, tackle the man with the gun.

They struggled for the weapon, the smell of gunpowder still sharp in the air, the shot still ringing in his ears, the fury growing in his gut with every beat of his heart, the shock hammering deeper into his skull with every throb the image of Sam, falling to never get up again.

Marble-hard blows, frantic grapples, both of them scrambling to get the upper hand. He wasn't playing fair, had no longer any reason to even pretend, but neither did the other man. The rage was making him faster, his hits harder, but the other one was cooler, had the wits Dean's wrath had burnt from him.

One more strike, and the world blacked out briefly, buried under a burst of pain he couldn't ignore. He keeled over, felt the moistness of the unyielding ground rush up to meet him, senses wild, sensations mad.

He heard the gun being cocked, knew everything he could do would be too slow, too late to avoid the inevitable. He swallowed, let his aching head rest on the damp ground, eyes closed, the coolness seeping through his clothes past blossoming bruises to reach his heavy heart.  
Perhaps it was best. What kind of life could he lead, after all, alone?

A moment more...

He never heard the shot. Instead, there was a crack and then the muted thud as the body dropped to the ground, harsh breaths.

His eyes snapped open at the same time as knees hit the dirt beside him, long fingers latched onto the drumming of his heart. For a beat, he could only stare, fingers convulsively tight around his brother's arm, trying to make sense of it all.  
Hazel eyes, startled and wide, half-choked sob snapped him out of his shock, and he shot up, ignored the extra tilt to the world, knowing hands seeking the front of Sam's jacket, mind acknowledging the lack of blood that should have been there, recognizing the bullet hole, feeling the familiar contours in the breast pocket.

His eyes slipped closed as he drew the leaner man into a rough hug, his whole being praising whatever twist of fate had gotten Sam to keep their father's journal about his person even as relief clad in curses crashed past his lips.


	27. Stupid

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_I'm sorry, but...have to get this out my system. ;)  
This latest episode (2x09)...?  
I'll just be happily snickering and slipping into incoherency in the corner now, thank you very much...   
...realizing that there's nothing I can do to get even close to the stratum Kripke is in... _

_Incidentally: Thank You, everyone! It's so very, very pleasant and uplifting to know how many have enjoyed these snippets...;)  
I appreciate and cherish each and every single one feedback!_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Stupid**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He struggled up, bright spots in his eyes, all around him, flames hungry and hot against the cold he felt.

Breath evaded him, smoke instead of air, and all he could think is _how the hell a simple salt'n'burn can possibly go so wrong_, his feet barely recognizing his head's orders, dragging him down to the floor like he really should have known to do the moment sentience sparked up. There was air, more so than higher up, even if the whole damn place was burning up.

Hands reached, fingers fumbling, trying to help him drag his ass out of there, fires of broken bones reminding him just what happened. He hissed, biting back the pain and the penumbra, forcing his damaged digits to work.

_Damn it._

He wasn't going to go down like this. Bested by one stupid spirit and carelessness.


	28. Threat

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Thank you, ghostbehindyou, Ash8, Ginger Ninja...everyone who reads:D  
I'm afraid this one may be a wee bit vague...  
Italics denote thoughts. _

_This is something I couldn't get rid of after seeing Simon Said.  
So, slightly spoilerish for **second season**: 2x02, 2x05._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Threat**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Sam's breath was harsh, too fast to belie pain, body boneless against his brother's. The metal felt cold under Dean's fingers, made of ice like his heart as he let his gaze wander from the man to the girl to the woman, his aim steady.

Beneath his palm, through the flannel, cotton of Sam's shirts, pulse paced precariously, minute tremors danced through muscles. Around them, the three (_threats_) stood, frozen, eyes betraying questions, fear, warning.

"We are not the enemy, Dean." Softly spoken, steel beneath the downs.

He didn't blink, didn't think. Sam wasn't safe, and that was all that mattered.

"Dean...?" Rough voice, warm breath on the underside of his jaw. His grip tightened in answer, gaze trained, muscles tense.

The lean man shifted in his arms, eyes adjusting to the the place his body had never left, reality racing in with reason, blinks bringing the brains back up to speed.

"Dean...It's okay." Soft, now, pain pushed barely away. Pleading eyes on him, hand upon his own. "It's okay..."

A moment more, air a-sparkle with the electricity of anticipated action.  
Eyes, green (_all right?_) and hazel (_yes_), met and, reassured, relented.  
With a final, dark glance at the other people in the dusty tavern they had once again returned to, the gun was uncocked, lowered, tension bleeding into the woodwork as muscles relaxed, the brothers rose from the floor.


	29. Night

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Night**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Sounds of strife and shots drag him from the outskirts of oblivion into the presence of pain and sharp sensations. Too much, and blows he cannot remember receiving make his head dizzy. The place he sees he recalls, the men...not lying around, beaten, bleeding like they are now.

"God, you just _had_ to piss 'em off?" Softly murmured words he hardly catches behind him, familiar cadence besting the hydra-like fears as quick fingers relieve the pressure of the rope on his wrists.

"Sam?"

No answer, but he jerks his arms away, rubbing the sore wrists, flexing his fingers. The younger man shuffles in front of him, stance stiff, arms loose and quick by his sides, new cut in his lip bright, fresh bruises beginning to bloom around hazel eyes as he takes in the state of his brother.

"What happened?" Dean queries carefully, gaze dancing to the door in the corner before returning to read the expression of the other man, not really sure he wanted to know. "You okay?"

Tight smile, eyes as hard as rock, skimming over shadows, edgy to escape.

"He told me to give him as good head as I gave you", Sam says softly, chuckle easy in his voice as he offers a hand to help Dean up. "So I knocked him out."

There's a question in the glance they share, answered in equal silence as the elder man shrugs.  
Before the morning breaks, they've left the Hickburg, letting human authorities deal with human trouble.


	30. Abyss

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Spoilerish for **second season**, especially 2x01._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Abyss**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Afterwards, you'll wonder how the heck you could miss it.

Afterwards, you'll find new depths to the well-known abyss of guilt and failure and incompetence as you think back on everything.  
The horror of hospital, tube down your throat, shocked shitless at _how something as integral as breathing can possibly be so goddamn hard?_ Dad's eyes. Words. News. The look...so many looks on Sam's face, in his eyes. Hurt, pained, lost.

Afterwards, you'll curse yourself for not seeing it all coming a mile away.

Afterwards, you'll realize that by then it was already too late. You'd lost the moment you forgot the mantra of _Past is Past_, couldn't shrug away what had happened, begun to dwell on the things you couldn't possibly change anymore. The moment fears caught up with you and precaution turned to precipitation.

In the now, however, you can do nothing but stare, scream lodged in your head, seeking a way out, panic burrowing a way in, and try to rouse your brother from his suicidal slumber.


	31. Cracks

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_I'd like to present a public Thank You to each and everyone of you lovely people who reads and/or reviews:) _

_Not really spoilerish, but...either post2x04, or Sam's stumbled again. And there are tiny references to 1X22/2x01._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Cracks**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Sam held his right arm close to his chest, the cast cracked, eyes bright, skin shock-sallow as he drew Dean up. He was quiet now, but the cry as the ghost had taken a swing at his arm...

"You okay? Your arm-?"

Tense smile flashed on Sam's lips, his eyes on the tears in Dean's clothes, the dust and grime.

"The cast took the brunt of it. It just...I just need a new cast."

The elder man regarded him for a moment, sizing him up. Sam stood his ground, faced the once-over without a flinch.  
Seemingly satisfied, Dean slipped past him, tried to keep the sway from his steps as he wandered over to the duffel bag in the other room, the charred remains. Still silent, the lean man followed him cautiously, scattered the ashes.

Outside, Dean took out the keys only to have the long fingers of his brother close around them. Green eyes met hazel, doubt faced with intent.

"_You're_ going to drive?"

Sam held onto the keys, soft steel in his eyes, his face, his pose. His voice.

"I'm not the one who just went through a wall. Can _you_ even drive?"

Sure, he felt sore. Bruised. But he wasn't seeing twins around, and the world was just as stable as before, so irritation flitted through Dean's acheless head, glanced in his eyes with memory.

"Will letting you behind the wheel one-handed land us in ICU again?"

His voice came out colder than he meant, his words harsher than intended.  
The long fingers jerked away, eyes averted quickly, too late to hide the flash of hurt.

_Damn it._

Carefully, feeling awkward even though he knew he really shouldn't, the memory still like a barrier between them, Dean reached, laid a hand on Sam's shoulder lightly.

_When did things get so difficult? So hard?_

He knew the answer, refused to think about it.

"Look, Sam...I'm okay. Really. And I'm sorry." He swallowed, tried to regain some strength to his voice, raise it out of the rough depths of emotion. He didn't need all that, not now. "We'll pop down to the ER, get your arm checked out, leave Hillbillyville. That little blaze of yours should've dealt with Mel and Mab's PMS permanently."

Sam read his eyes, nodded quietly, unconsciously cradling his right arm. Dean held his shoulder, gave it a small squeeze.

Without another word they got into the car, Sam settling into the familiar right side while Dean slipped in behind the wheel, the purr of the engine as they left the old house still ever so slightly different than it had been before...that night.

"You know, you could just drop me off at the health center. Go back to the motel, get cleaned up, rest. I'll call you when I'm finished. Or just walk back. We don't need to both waste the night there, draw attention."

In his eyes, though, Dean could see the silent question mark. He smiled, shrugged.

"You good by yourself?"

"I think I'm old enough to sit in a hospital alone, Dean."

"What if there's a clown or two to entertain the kids?"

The glance Sam shot him, half-murder, half-amused, told him more than a thousand words ever possibly could.

At least that had survived that autumn night.


	32. Hunt

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Hunt**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The heavy downpour surprises him as he rushes after the black dog, out of the house. It forces him to blink, acknowledge how bad idea it is to be so vulnerable right now. The world around him is drawn and bleak, ground a muddy mess, dead leaves slick and slipping under his soles, Sam close by behind him as they charge into the thickets.

It crashes through the brushes, massive body blazing a trail easy to follow. Pure black against the muted, dead colours of the dormant, dark woods. Even with its speed and headstart, they have a chance.

In silence, the Hunt alive, alert in their blood, the brothers chase after the creature, ducking whiplash-branches, skipping over raised roots, soles skidding on soggy ground. Dean keeps his eyes on the mess of muscles and fur that reflects no light, heart beating out ingrained orders, revenge for all the victims they've been too late to save, ignoring the implications.

He blinks, and it's gone.

The trail stops as if cut, ethereal paws no longer present, big body just...gone.  
The bushes are empty, the woods dead around them.  
Their breath, steady and fast, is the only sound.

Sam's eyes meet Dean's, muscles awaiting action, senses strained.

Tense silence, clothes cold and clinging, breaths puffing in the thrum of rain.

Minute rustle from the foliage behind them is all the warning they get.


	33. Burnt

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_If there's a lull in my activity, my apologies. I think my brain just exploded...along with a couple of other body parts...   
Look! Shiny, new Season 1 DVD Box!  
-goes back to purr and pet the discs-_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Burnt**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The fuel catches the spark, billowing out to swallow the bag of bones, salt glittering in the heat. He watches the flames, guards them, keeps them in check during the brief moment it takes for the remains to be rendered into nothing but dust. The forest whispers around him, the lake at ease under the moon in front of him, the dark cabin behind him.

The flames reach out, lick the ground, try to find purchase in the bare rock. He glances behind himself, unease in his heart growing as he lets the blaze die, scatters the ash, lets the slight winds sighing through the woods sprinkle it, disturb the smooth surface of the water.

By the time the smoke has shifted into the night, and his calls still remain unanswered, he has slid out the shotgun and sprinted to the cabin, darkness too silent.

One look at the huddled form of his brother, breath still gasping, dark eyes hard, at the puddle still visible on the old, worn carpet, and Sam realizes that there are too many too close calls in their lives.


	34. Erythema

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Thank You, all the lovely people who read!  
And here's a prime example of what happens when I try to hurt Dean...;)_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Erythema**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

That night, neither of them really sleeps.  
Sam hovers, lays uneasily, questions and cares.  
Dean, tight-lipped, lets him because he can't even pick up the goddamn keys to the Impala without flinching and cursing.

He spends the night leaning against the headboard of the bed, letting the coldness seep through the towel, waiting for it to numb the nerves, bury the burn.  
Watching Sam fidget, prowl, check and double-check everything with "I'm sorry" in his eyes for the first half of the night before finally resigning and closing his eyes, slipping into a resemblance of rest.

Somewhere down the road, Dean drifts off, too. He doesn't dream, though wispy apparitions with shotguns flicker through his mind, _and his skin smells as bad as it burns in memories as it did in real life, phantasmal fire licking the length of the shotgun as he grabs it only to release it with a cry, shock searing into his sentience._

When they shake off the pretentious slumber, the scorch has dwindled to a throb, the skin red and sore, teetering between the first and second degree, the ice melted, soaked up by the towel and his pants.


	35. Urge

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Post-1x16. That's all I know, I swear. ;)_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Urge**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

There was an inhuman scream, the ragged form dispersing as the bullets sang through it.

Sam laid, his body collapsed in on itself, breath heavy. Clouded eyes held a moment more on the spot where the specter had hovered, his gun useless, forgotten on the floor not far from him.

"Sam? You hurt?"

The hazel clearing, the leaner man shrugged off the hand on his shoulder, rose to a crouch, long fingers curled to pale fists.

"No." Tight smile on his lips, quick glance up at Dean as he recovered the gun. "Abby here's just not Casper."

"Then wha-?"

Sam straightened and brushed past his brother swiftly, voice tense.

"Succubus."

It took a heartbeat for that to sink in.  
After the pieces had fallen in place, Dean's lips lifted in a smirk, heralding laughter.

"I thought I told you to pick someone normal the next time!"

Sam didn't turn, though now Dean could spot the slight pink tint flushing his neck, cheeks.

"Fuck you, Dean."

"Didn't think you'd swing that way."

"Shut up."


	36. Alone

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Set during the second season...so pure speculation. I do hope dear Mr Kripke won't torture the lovely boys!boys!boys! the way the fans have a fondness for...  
And why does freaked-Dean appeal to me so...? ;)_

_Thank You to all who read, all who comment.  
'Tis a pleasure in itself to see word-weaving like this appreciated... :)  
_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Alone**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The world swung slightly as he shot up only to lean his head against his hand with a grunt, happy to remain a moment more on his ass.

_What the hell happened?_

He blinked a few times at the vision of a purple-clad room, slivers of recollection slipping in and out of his mind.

The news.

The dull look in Sam's eyes.

The heat of disagreement.

The argument that turned to words he didn't like.  
Words like 'Demon', 'want', 'me'. 'Simple'.

Then...

"Damn it", he choked out, fears roughing his voice, turning it too close to a sob as he realized the room was empty, his jaw still hurt.

_Hell of a rain check._

Sam was gone.

_Alone._


	37. Life is But a Dream

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_This, besides being a landmark for breaking a promise, also shall be the herald of a hiatus. I'll keep posting, just not daily, at least for this week.  
As for that promise...won't happen often. Not saying this won't happen again, but at least it's not going to happen often. ;) _

_Thank You, everyone who has glanced through these so far, everyone who has commented, everyone who has favourited this or placed these in their alerts.  
I hope my replies have reached you, or will, within a while. :)  
Enjoy!_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
"Life is But a Dream"**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Sam's seen Dean die.

He's witnessed his brother's demise in myriad ways, feared its closeness another multitude more.

Sometimes it's been weird, in a silly sort of way, like getting throttled by an army of zombie Jell-Os.  
Sometimes it's been creepy, in a puke-your-guts-out sort of way, like getting flayed alive by particularly nasty spirits.  
Sometimes it's been plausible, in a memory sort of way, like getting your brains blown out.

Waking up has usually worked, the lingering touches of those terrors banished once and for all when he's found Dean alive even if not necessarily well close-by.  
Or at least a phone call away.

They've had so many brushes with Death that, in a morbid way, Sam finds himself considering them to be on a first-name basis by now. They've always fooled Death, fled the reapers. They've always found loopholes, struck deals, hustled the Dark Angel with equal ease as everyone else they've ever come across.

So when it really happens, when Dean truly dies, Sam merely waits for the dream to end, denial dancing at the edges of his psyche.

It takes him a good while to realize there's no waking up from some dreams.


	38. Slumber

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_They keep telling me this happened during the first season..._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Slumber**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Sam slumbers almost before they cross the city limits, streetlights' sway carving the lines of his face deeper, night darkening the shadows.

_The last couple of days..._

Dean can't find it in himself to even wonder about his brother's sleepiness. If he could, he'd take back a lot of things. Change another battalion, hopefully for better.

Instead, in the silence and the susurrus of the wheels on blacktop, he lets his gaze shift between the never-ending road in front of him and the ever-weary form beside him.


	39. Poisonous

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_I sincerely hope, wherever all of You are, that the Year's End treats you well._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Poisonous**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The spell descended like a cloak, smothering all control. Fingers colder than iron, stronger than ice caressed his cheek, the fine tendrils speeding commands from brains to muscles cut, synapses scrambled. He still tried to struggle, fight off the wraith, trapped within a body that no longer listened.

Effortless, the long fingers pulled his unresisting form into a kiss he knew there was no escaping, his finger on the trigger unresponsive. Gaze wandering, conscious going, the dots connected as the sprig of green and white burnt on his retina, mocking.

-:-

_"Be careful."_

Dean's last words before they'd split to search for whatever still bound Mina into the world her body had left in a blaze.

_Doesn't apply to you?_

Filled with grim thoughts, Sam watched the ashes of the ever-green piece grow cold, arms wrapped around his brother's body, feeling life slowly leaking back in as warmth and colour, the pulse gaining strength with each beat under his fingers.

_Or women under mistletoe?_


	40. Rusty

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Definitely early season one... Why does Phantom Traveller keep flitting around my skull?_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Rusty**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The shower washes away the dust, struggling to suffocate him. The soap swirls down the drain, drowning the scent of blood and fire, ashes, rusty remains stippling the water. He doesn't watch it, concentrates on how the hot water pricks his back, cascades down his body, on anything other than past, thoughts.

But how to forget something like that?

Four years, and the fears and phantasms faded, fled as sun and studies filled his days.

His back burns, and it's not the water's temperature.

Easing out of the habit to keep a blade within inches of his fingers, a gun within an arm's reach, doodling protective charms on every surface when his nerves threatened to fail him...that had taken the better part of the first year. Relaxing to realize there rarely was a threat to his life, his loved ones, demanding reflexes fast enough to fool the eye...equally hard.

There's a voice inside his head telling him that maybe it's a bit more than just a bruise, bone deep.

He'd promised never to return. Assured himself the news that felt off were never his to worry about, the mistake in a course book about banshees not his to correct, the nightmares just a side effect of his unconscious fear of commitment.

Stumbling out of the shower, dizziness that has nothing to do with steam settling over his sentience, he stares dumbly as the towel returns red, his back no drier.

The same part of him that recognized the wendigo in Lost Creek whispers to him now that he should have been able to dodge the wraith's blow, known the extent of the damage. Let Dean tend to his hurts like he used to.

But everything's changed, now, and the rapport inherent in their relationship is but one of many things in need of mending.


	41. Surfacing

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Thank you, everyone who reads. :)  
Wild wolf free 17, I'm honoured that you've enjoyed the previous installments.  
Thank you._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Surfacing**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The pain has grown familiar by now, introducing new incarnations only on occasion, no longer with the rush hour urgency. He wonders absentmindedly if the warm sluggishness he feels has anything to do with that.

Still, his body begs him to give up, to let go, flee the fractures and frayed nerves lurking just beyond the thin, muffling blanket.

There's the comforting darkness, lapping against his consciousness.

His mind demands him to get up, to go, find out, _fight, damn it_.

Senses seep back reluctantly, memories sticky with crimson.

_Shouldn't have gone up against a goddamn werebitch in heat...   
Too late to mourn that now._

He can only wish it's not too late to do anything but lay down and die when the lightning bolt of worry courses through him, forces him to shoot up, scramble around, sensations sudden and strange and _sharp_ around the stitches. Warm hands land on his shoulders, push him down, low murmur in his ears.

The words struggle through the frantic fears and feelings, face, tousled hair, hazel eyes he'd know anywhere, anytime reassuring him, grounding him.

As always, the fact that they're alive, together, is the only thing that truly matters. Whatever happened before, whatever will happen after...inconsequential.


	42. Await

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Await  
**_by Sade Lyrate_

There are faint, red traces still dotting Sam's chest, now rising, falling with easy regularity, and Dean can't help but think about the candles.

It's sick and makes him shudder inside even as he reaches a hand, brushes the skin, its warmth ever so slightly erring on the wrong side.

He doesn't know, doesn't understand what happened, isn't really certain he wants to, either. Whatever it was, pushed Sam out of his mind, left Dean to pick up the pieces. Memories of what he _did_ see still haunt him, the shock in the barely-sentient eyes bright and pure and naked.

Pulling the covers up to hide the not-quite-burns anew, gaze settling on his brother's face, Dean wishes he would just wake up, let him know that Sam's still with him, all sharp remarks and unhappy smiles, keen eyes and glint of glee. That the change he saw in the depths of his brother's eyes, the lilt to the light that touched on something primal in his bones, kicking to the front instincts far older than his body, urging him to just get the hell away because there are just some things _no one's_ supposed to fuck with hasn't taken what the fires and the blood and the lies had failed with.

Easily within his reach still lay the Holy water, the gun with silver charges, their father's journal because he no longer has faith enough to trust second chances, believe in wishes granted.


	43. Pay

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Testing a format. Though Sam's too feminine for my tastes in this...;) _

_Explanation for 42?  
Dean waits for Sam to wake up, even though it may not be Sam who wakes up._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Pay**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

"What happened?"

No accusation, no chiding. Care and sharp eyes, quick, methodical hands.

"Got stupid. Got careless." Mirthless chuckle. "Got sore losers."

Antiseptic, sting and hiss, knowing fingers.

"We gotta leave?"

Pressure, pad of gauze, adhesive tape.

"If even one of them remembers being in the bar, not to mention fooling at the pool table, or picking a fight by the time they wake up, they faked their state pretty damn well."

"Worth it?" Quiet now, thoughts elsewhere, careful with his hands, hazel eyes, bloodied knuckles.

Unseen smirk, stretch, pull of bruised muscles, fight-clumsy fingers, cash from within the folds of the discarded leather jacket.

"Easily. I mean, what? I got a couple of bruises, spent an hour or two, got more money than I'd get out of any job a day?"

Silence. Sigh, knuckles bound. Rustle, tense steps.

"Ever thought you might lose one day?"

Smile.

"That's why I've got you covering my back."

Eyes on his, hard beyond the bangs, voice sardonic.

"Except when I leave early to get some research done or catch a little sleep."

Shrug.

"Still, I know you'll drag my ass back together."

Look, locked, faced, reading. Reassuring, knowing, trusting, entreating.  
A moment, then...backing off, hardly satisfied for now.

"I'll get some ice for that black eye. And for your ribs, right?"

Steps, door, click.  
Smile, look, whisper.

"What would I do without you, little brother?"


	44. Pardon

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Pardon**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

There are hands touching him, arms holding him, cacophony of cadences all around him.

But they're not the hands he wants. They're not the arms he needs. They're not the voices he trusts.

Dreads drag him doggedly into the prairie of pain his body's become, override the shock, sharpen the shards of memories until his voice is forced out of him. He has to ask, he has to find out, even if...  
If the answer's the one he fears, at least he'd know the fight's over, he could rest, let go without remorse.

It seems as if nothing changes, the chaos of carnage's aftermath remains. His eyes are useless, his blood too thick in his ears, his mangled muscles too weak to make sense.

"'m here, Sam", and the whisper dispels the darkness, soft touch brushing his alarm away, relief washing him off the shore of sentience.


	45. Alarm

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Freaking out expecting a new episode of Supernatural?  
Never!_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Alarm**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

It takes him a while to realize he can still breathe.  
He can still think. He's still a he, not a she, rope tight around the neck.

The asphalt's rough under his skin, the smell of oil and exhaust fumes bitter in his mouth with each breath, the sky crisp and blue above him, his palms and knees tingling, light glancing sharply off the Impala's open door.  
The headache's almost gone, and he's dizzy, and there are running steps, alarmed cries.

He wishes he wouldn't have these...fits. Wishes the Demon had never found them. Wishes that he could just wake up from this hell of a life and into another where everything's just...normal.

And feels like shit.


	46. Chance

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Yeah, I know...I've maltreated these lately. But Vicissitudes is keeping me busy.  
The bad news is that the Bunny and its brothers think Sam has 'victim' written with bright, bold letters on his forehead...;)  
_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Chance**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He saw it approach, his world upside down and broken around the edges. Brains registered it distantly, instincts urged him to get up and do something about it, muscles refused to comply.

_But...falling during a hunt? What other way was there to go?_

Small surprise one of the critters hadn't gotten him already. Sure, that one rawhead had come close thanks to his own foolishness, but...

The monstrosity hovered ever closer.

He could see the dark teeth, taste the rancid breath.

A moment more and he-

The blast made it jump, eyes wide with surprise. The bullet's brethren made it pivot and fall, running steps echoing the report.

"Dean! You okay?"

He sighed, body realigning itself, shaking the daze out of his head.

"Yeah, just...just gimme a minute, 'kay?"


	47. Wary

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Wary**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Every time Sam has a vision, every time his face twists into a grimace, every time it takes him a moment to catch his breath, the ghost of their father hovers in the corner of Dean's eyes.

Every time Sam's eyes darken, every time his anger lashes out, the words echo in Dean's heart.

Every time Sam gets hurt, there's a prayer in the twitch of Dean's muscles.

_Not yet._


	48. Denial

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

**Callmee Satizphide**, everyone else: Thank You!  
:D

_Trying to court the Muse/Bunnies to return after the damned flu, so I'll give you Good Parenting, part XVI..._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Denial**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

It hurts, the spots in his eyes bright, breath too hard to draw for a minute.

But he's John Winchester's son, and they don't cry. They push through the pain because if they don't, people will die. They shrug off whatever weakness might be burdening them and dive, headlong, into the danger and kill it, as many times as it takes because there's no one else to tackle it.

So of course it's "Nothing" when the pain tears through his skull.  
"I'm fine" when he just wants to curl up and whimper.  
"Yeah" when he can barely breathe through the vertigo.

It's never for long, after all.  
Just long enough for everyone else to scamper into safety.  
After that...


	49. Pinned

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Pinned**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Phantom fire danced in the corner of his eye, blackening wood that hadn't been there for several decades, licking along surfaces long gone.

_There is air_, he kept telling himself, sucking in a breath after another, paling from the pain every time a bit more. _The fire is nothing but a memory. There's no CO._

In.

Out.

His fingers tightened around the metal of the rod. It felt cool in his hand, illogical in the inferno gaining strength around him. Real.

All he needed to do, now, the teens safe outside, was to find Dean, revise their plan.

He focused on the firmness within his fist, ignored the blood and the pain, and pulled, slumping down as the metal clattered to the floor, released him from the wall.


	50. Bedlam

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Post-1x06, Skin_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Bedlam**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

A hand on his shoulder, tightly gripping, tears into his dreams and nightmare-honed instincts lash out. Muscles trained to fight without conscious thought take their cues from memory as terrors taint reality, turn shadows to shades, bedding into beasts, the other into an ogre.

He answers each move, frantic, far from free, desire to simply survive the whole of him, destroy the demons and devils after him.

They stumble, crash, and his hands lock around a throat.

It isn't until he feels the pulse prancing against his palms, the struggle to suck in air under his fingers that the dream leaves Sam, sentience snaps back. As if burned, he scrambles until a wall meets his back, cuts off his escape from what he almost did, Dean staring at him, alive but anxious, catching his breath.

No matter what he tells himself, his brother, there are times when he's not all that certain they survived what happened in St. Louis.


	51. Exposed

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_In order to celebrate my birthday, Sam's hurt._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Exposed**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Nothing gives in under his his testing hands and for that, at least, he's thankful.  
Nothing changes under his frantic probing and for that, at least, his worries grow.

Sam doesn't react to his calls, his touch. He breathes, his heart beats against the fingers seeking assurance, resting on the parched skin. He's alive, and that's more than Dean dared to hope for after Sam's cell remained dead for days.

Paranoia purrs in his soul, urges to leave the reflections and understanding for later, get the two of them out of the wide open space and into shelter. Not stay here, vulnerable to whoever texted him the coordinates, took and then left Sam to the four winds, scattered everything in his pockets around him in a parody of a protective circle.

No sound escapes the chapped lips as Dean drags the loose-limbed body up, into the car by the side of the road. He threatens his brother because anger's the only feeling he can bear to admit. But nothing he says elicits an emotion, the grimy face remains unaware. He fears shock, his mind deals out dehydration, his memory mocks him for his failures.

He couldn't know, but that sounds empty as he watches his brother, familiar cocoon of clothes rumpled, all expanses of bare skin covered with the dust of the plains, no bones broken, not bleeding, out of it as if he'd been beaten.

But he's _alive_, they're together, and Dean's not stupid enough to not appreciate that.

His gratitude turns to curses when he discovers the bruises.  
The burns bring out pleas.  
The Post-it note tucked under all the layers, caught beneath the waistband of Sam's underwear is the final straw, and Dean finds himself walking the too-clean corridors he swore he would never set a foot in again after the time when the three Winchesters last left a hospital.


	52. Conditioned

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Conditioned**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

There is undeniable imperative in the clipped words.

So he tries. He really, really tries, but he can't be sure his body obeys beyond the pain.

His ears catch the command over the thrum, mind remembers that you really shouldn't need to be reminded to keep your eyes open on a hunt.

That's easier, though. Compared to breathing, that's ridiculously easy. The darkness passes, but the face he sees isn't clear enough to make out whether it's Sam or Dad. _What kind of an idiot goes hunting in mist so thick, anyway?_ The tone's the same, however, no matter who's talking to him. Issuing demands and orders he's near-always failed to ignore.

Now, though, he just wants to tell that voice to shut the fuck up, leave him alone.

And while they're on it, would it really kill Sam/Dad to stop hovering?


	53. Broken

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Sadistic? Me?  
Schattenfreund refuses to cooperate, and I needed something physical to balance out the mindfuck it's turning into, thus..._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Broken**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He tried to ignore the burn in his back, and-

_don'tthinkaboutthat_

His legs wouldn't cooperate, his whole body ached, his cell could have been on the Moon instead of mere feet away.

The afterimage of a supernova flared within his skull as he crawled, the gravel biting into the palm of his left hand. A move, another, the pain aggravated by each pull. Short bursts of breath, his head swimming, the siren song of sleep ever stronger.

The familiar form under his fingers sent a quick praise tumbling through his sluggish mind, past bruised lips.

He flopped against the wall on his side, teeth clenching at the spikes the tiles' roughness drove into his nerves, hand clutching the little device like the straw it was. A deep breath, sea urchins within his lungs, and he flipped open the cell, slick fingers slipping over the speed dial.

"This is Dean Winchester. If this is an emergency-"

_No._

He sucked in a breath that felt too much like a sob, waited for the recorded message to play out. Prayed Dean'd _pick up the damn phone!_  
Unmistakable beep, mocking him just like his body, lips unfamiliar as he sought to form words, eyes closing as he concentrated on what he knew, what he needed, what he had to do.

Somewhere along the line, he forgot to open them again.


	54. Weight

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_**Ddd**? In my experience, no matter what, you're never alone. ;) _

_Lookie, I'm learning!_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Weight**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Her breaths are harsh and hasty, out of rhythm as she curls up on the ground, coughs up water. But she's safe, free from the grasp of the monster in the lake, and it takes a moment for the shrill cry of emptiness in his heart to make him look around, register the silence that shouldn't be, the lack of movement that should have followed them.

His eyes cover the stretch of shore, land on the lake in a frantic sweep, denial only half-formed before he dives back in, lungs still recovering, burning the moment the weight of the water settles on him again, the darkness refusing to part, let him see. No time for thoughts, airless tightness gripping closer with each stroke, until there's a glimmer of form, swaying like a sheet in a wind.

His heart's bursting with desperation and demands, muscles aching at the exertion, but so close now he can't give up. Kicks propel him enough to catch at the body, see the sunken log holding onto his brother's leg like a lover. He pulls at the long-dead wood, anguish adding to his strength. It splinters in his hands, lets the body free, and he kicks both of them toward the surface, like a light at the end of the tunnel.

There's no breath under his palms as they breach, just clammy skin, barely there heartbeat, blue leeching the life out of the stubbled cheeks. He's wearier than he's ever been, but he can't rest, not even as he drags the two of them to the dry strand.

Strain straddles him as he pinches the freckled nose, blows a breath he needs less than his brother into the lungs, waits for a response, repeats. His heart beats out prayers in staccato, willing for those green eyes to open, the stupid jerk to start breathing on his own again as his surroundings blur, his body on autopilot.

He doesn't know how long it takes (_not too long_), but finally, _finally_, muscles contract under his touch, he pushes his brother to his side, collapses behind him on to the wet sand, listening to the gurgling breaths as air and water struggle for dominion, hands stroking the back of the dark, wet shirt, wanting to hug the smaller frame to himself and never ever let go again.

_Thank God_ whispers through his mind, movement in the corner of his eye making him spin around, ready for a fight he won't be able to win.

But it's only the girl, dark eyes large, wet clothes clinging to her frame just like her arms.

"You-you alright?"

It's insane, it's the only thing ever really worth asking, but it always feels wrong, coming from anyone but his brother. Their absent father. He stares at her, still reeling from the one more _almost_ in the Winchester-history, knowing it's all far from over, choking on the adrenaline-laughter.


	55. Hero

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_AU, 'cause honestly? Sweet, but unlikely. But let me have my dreams...even though the idea's better by far than the realization. ;)  
Spoilers for 1x22 and 2x01, respectively.  
And those reading Schattenfreund: Don't worry, I'm working on it._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Hero**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

_Dean cries out, the sound the worst Sam's ever heard, and he can taste the blood, feel his muscles helplessly straining against the alien will holding him in place. The Colt lies but feet from his hands, useless, powerless without willing hands to pull the trigger. _

_Dean needs him, their father needs him, he's the only one who can stop this, his debt to both of them long overdue. _

_"No." _

_It's not a scream, a wail, a yell.  
It's softly spoken, vehement in its denial as it passes his lips. _

_The yellow eyes turn from his brother, burn into his skin. He welcomes the attention, feeling the determination build. If he can keep the Demon from Dean, there's a chance. _

_"No," he repeats. "No more." _

_There is power at the tips of his fingers now, singing, whispering, promising. _

_He faces the Demon, looks beyond the body it's wearing, refusal pacing with hope, honing the beak of a predator he knows himself to be. _

_Half a breath, and the energy surges through him, fiery talons snatch at his father's body, let it fall even as black smoke without a throat to cry with trashes and curses within their grasp as they begin to tear it apart. _

_Within heartbeats, it's all over, the essence of the Demon burnt by a fire of a different origin into nothingness. Their father stirs on the floor, Dean looks at him with not-dead eyes. _

_They are all alive, they all survived the big showdown, he kicked the Demon's ass. None of them needed to be shot. _

_And it's almost too easy._

The world rushed back in an unfriendly mix of pain and echoes and failure, wakefulness dropping him into the coldness of the hospital room, the chair unkind to his battered body, his head aching.   
Everything was still the same. The Ouija board lay on the floor nearby, its pointer where he'd left it. The machines whirred, beeped, hummed, trying in vain to mask the silence in the room, the lack of life to the body on the bed.

Involuntarily, his eyes touched the too pale face, the lax hands, the hospital garb that always managed to look horrible. The cannulae staving off the inevitable.

He should've done something.

Dean wasn't supposed to be so...gone.

He'd failed.

He hadn't been able to keep the Demon from hurting Dean.

How could he even hope to keep a reaper from him?


	56. Woods

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_My excuse? I'm blood-thirsty and this language-freak of a bunny clasped its fangs around my artery until I acquiesced. _

_Set during **2nd Season**. And no, I know nothing about 2x17 or further. No, not even the promo's worth. I'd appreciate to be kept in the dark. Feedback concerning any of the things I've written I'll welcome with open arms, though. ;) _

_Thank You with bows and pretty things to each and every one who has ever dropped me a note._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Woods**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

"Just hang in there, just a moment more. We're not quite out of the woods yet."

He didn't really expect to get a response to his breathy assurance, so the pained bark of laughter made him glance sharply at his brother. A grimace graced his features, even that better by far than the silence, listlessness from before.

"Over two decades and _now_ you realize that?"

The strained words twisted and tore something inside him, the subdued sarcasm sharp, even as a part of him delighted in the fact that some wheels were still turning under all that hair.

Their father gave up, folded when faced with a too terrible prospect.

He couldn't let that happen to the two of them.

"It's gonna be okay." He took a better hold of the long-limbed body, jaw set anew. "You'll see."

Desperation glimmered in the depths, faith he had rarely seen faltering before now weak with failure, delicate fingers tightening in his coat.

Even if he was the only one of the three of them to believe there was even a slight chance to avert it, end it all, so be it.


	57. Cessation

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Promise: Once broken, twice fragile. Me sorry.  
Atropos, use your shears. Mort, watch the sand and bring out your blade. Malak al-Maut, here's one for you. Teleute, eldest of seven, the sound of your wings has always haunted even the Winchesters' sleep. _

_Spoilerious for 2x10, 2x11, 2x14. AU, methinks._

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Cessation**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

In the end, it's easier than you ever thought it could possibly be.

But then, you never thought you'd live to see the day when there was nothing left that you could recognize. That there'd only be a shadow of something (_you wished_) you'd never seen before.

The inflections, the cadence of the voice are wrong, the twist of lips and the tilt of head unfamiliar. You used to look for a sign, something betraying presence of anyone, _anything_ else in there. This time, though, you know there's no exorcism that could banish the demon wearing the skin you're all too familiar with, because there is no demon. There are no binding links among the multitude of scars that so many weapons, so many hands have wrought. The charm dangles like a cheap joke, strung on a leather cord from an animal only the Benders hunted, together with an ear still adorned by a single golden, small hoop, a lock of blond hair, a ring that glints silver between the cracks in the crimson coating it.

You've heard all the taunts before, but every day _since_, you've taken a step after another until you could see the shimmering mess of what remained of the glass castle you called your life, your world. The gun's heavy in your left hand, and lighter than air, memory of Dad teaching you how to hold your hands, move your fingers fluttering weakly as you press down, the thunder distant.

It's a dance you've waltzed through before. This time, you don't put away your gun. This time, he doesn't hit your shoulder. This time, you both run out of ammo before either draws blood, knowing that neither of you will flee. This time.

Learning out of the habit of using your right arm took you long, and the news broke something more than bones within you, but you couldn't stop. No one else could do what was needed, after all.

You never thought you would have to keep those promises, either.

You thought you'd take your own life long before it would come to that. Realized, holding your father's gun, the darkness of the night so much lesser than the shadows in your soul, that you couldn't take the chance of leaving behind unfinished business.

The blade's something you procured from Bobby, pried loose from cold fingers. It's as sharp as any razor, sliding easily through skin, between bones with aim as natural as breathing, the twist and the turn tearing open the pericardium, severing the septum, destroying the ventricles before the pain could register.

When the light dies for the final time in the hazel eyes, the long-limbed body stills and grows cool in your arms, the silence pooling under you both, you know there's nothing left to fuel your momentum, and this time, the Reaper won't let go of you.


	58. Supine

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Been a while, hasn't it?  
A curious, and rather clumsy, entry ahead.  
Apologies.  
_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Supine**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

It's bitterly cold, and he's almost surprised his teeth don't chatter enough to betray him in the dead of night after he kills the engine and slips out like sin. The streets are empty, shadowing's never been this easy; he knows he's good, but even still, this is ridiculous. Or would be, if the last few days, the dead men would stop haunting him.

The only reason he's allowed the game to go on as long as this is because he was slow enough, blind enough and just plain _dumb_ enough to not notice anything being wrong until it was way too late to prevent it all. Now he can only hope like hell he'll be in time, realize it's been a miracle something like this hasn't happened before.

He thinks he's figured out what's going on.

That still doesn't mean the cold doesn't swipe at his heart as he loses his prey for a moment. As if Bloody Mary wasn't a close call enough. Likewise, he can't suppress the flinch as he catches up, sees the thing on the ground, Sam's frightfully still form pinned under it on the white snow like a sacrifice. But his body reacts, his reflexes sharp, brains frozen with fear.

The shot sings, strengthened by the silence, and the wasted face rises, hisses at him, framed by bright red hair. Another bang, the impact throwing the creature away, off Sam. Third finishes it off, and the wrinkled body stills, sagging breasts and loose skin far from any fantasy.

But killing it doesn't revive its victims, and the silence as the echoes die is too much.

There's an edge to the pallor that shouldn't be there, darkness to the lashes, deepness to the shadows Dean's witnessed on those already gone. There's quiet under his searching fingers, and curses on his tongue as CPR flows through his muscles like a choreography of survival.

The damn things drain you like vampires, save they don't lap up blood. And Sam's not breathing, his heart's not answering Dean's hammering.

He's too late. He's fucked up. He's stupid and dumb and _Thank God_ as Sam's clammy body fights away death. Air pours in and out of him, muscles straining and shaking, and he has to be freezing in his meager clothing.

There's no recognition in the wide eyes, barely any focus before they roll back again. But the tremors don't stop and the only thing Dean has is himself.

It's not gentle and it's not pretty, but he does the best he can and hauls Sam up on his feet, drags him into the Impala. The heat's on full, but the slackness to the body, the sickly shade to Sam's skin scares him even as he drapes a blanket from the trunk around the tall frame, ignoring the dampness to the too few clothes.

Already there are lights in the windows, the houses like mutant beholders.

He fights off the urge to hit the pedal and flee as fast as possible, struggles to keep things calm and measured.

"Come on, Sam. Wake up. That bitch didn't get you that bad."

But maybe his little brother can hear the lie his words are, and chooses to stay away.  
And maybe, just maybe, Sam failed to fight the she-devil because it's just easier to give up.


	59. Gone

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_For some reason, my mind's hellbent on hurting Sam. The more I long to write (physically) hurt Dean, the more Sam's victimized... Angsty, emotionally unstable and/or tortured Dean's not really a problem, though. Weird. _

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS   
Gone**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He barrels into the tall frame, feels the force washing over him like electricity as the momentum tears them off the sigil, brings their bodies down hard.

There's a scream, unnatural, full of rage, malice, Hell's horrors promised thousandfold in the span of a few seconds, but no noise, grunt, cry, sigh out of the man beneath him. It's wrong, he's too late, Sam's _gone_.

_Not yet_, he whispers the prayer, his brother's name holier than God's ever been, frantic fingers seeking skin, _You can't have him, not just yet._

His head bows, _Thank You_, as easy breath brushes against him, pulse paces calmly beneath the pads of his fingers.

But Sam doesn't wake up.


	60. Pernicious

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us. 

_My apologies for doing a disappearing act. All I can say is that I got a LJ-account, found the wonderful world of meta and Summer came along to steal my writing ability.   
I'll try not to pull a stunt like this again. _

**Ephiny63**, I'm so very, very sorry, darling. -hugs- Everything's fine and dandy, though time-machine, or 48-hour days would be handy.   
And **heather03nmg**? This is what happens when I try to write a hurt!Dean. ;)

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS   
Pernicious**   
_by Sade Lyrate_

He wakes up to aching muscles and a sore throat, to thick tongue and a full bladder. To the taste of blood and alarm as the hemp burns his wrists, bites his ankles. To warmth and confinement, a blanket tucked in around him. 

This isn't any game he remembers playing, even if the room's familiar. Memories a mess, he pulls at the restraints. He's not getting out, and God knows how many times he's done this already, because his skin's torn and broken, the rope sinking vicious strands into the abrasions. 

He turns his head, thoughts fluttering, sees Sam. 

Sam, face black and blue and purple, sitting stiffly, knuckles split. Cuts and scrapes and none from a hunt he'd recall. Sam, eyes sharp and bright and shut-off, long fingers curled into loose fists, uncomfortable and wary, watching him. 

There's sickness stirring in his belly as he meets the guarded gaze, recollections absent after checking in yesterday _(whenever that was)_. 

He can't get free, he can't even talk, desert in his mouth and terror in his heart. 

He doesn't know what happened, not certain he even wants to, remembering all too clearly the string of strange slayings that lured them here. 

But Sam's alive, he's alive, they've lived to see another day. 

Whatever happened is past _(it has to be)_.   
No matter the fallout, they'll deal with. 

_(We have to.)_


	61. Ripples

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_ Real Life, methinks there's a bullet with your name on it stashed somewhere. _

_Spoilers for 2x22_

* * *

**SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS  
Ripples**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He dreams of it sometimes.  
Enough for him to think he should have learned the signs, the routine of the dream by now.

It's always the same. One day, in a motel he can't really place, with the sun shining, rain falling, full moon bathing the world, whatever, in-between the fights with the hellspawn that fled through the Gate, Sam gives him this one look, hunched over his laptop, hovering above one of the books, coming out of the bathroom.

It's never anything more. Sam doesn't open his mouth, doesn't say a word, just gives him this _look_. And yet, he knows what it means. _"I've solved it"_, it says. _"I've figured it out"_, it promises. _"I know how we can break that deal."_

And then Sam's dead. No warning, nothing. First Sam's there, cross-legged on the bed, towering over the table, leaning against the wall. And then he's dead, meat rotting, the bones dry, the ashes gently falling on to the indistinct carpet.

_"I told you...you try to welsh and weasel your way out, Dean-o, Sammy's good as gone."_

He's learned to hate that voice. It's silk and velvet and scorpion's sting, slithering its way around him, curling and coiling, wrapping around his heart.

_"I wish you a long, _long_ life, love."_

And yet, no matter how often he has that dream, he always wakes up in cold sweat and a cry caught in his throat, Sam alive close by.

He doesn't talk about the nightmare, but he makes damn sure to discourage Sam from finding a way out. And Sam never questions, just gives him this _look_.


End file.
